


kiss me once

by IneffableDoll



Series: Ineffable Confessions of Love [7]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Angel Kisses, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexuality, Fluff, Freckles, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, No Angst, Oblivious Crowley (Good Omens), Other, freckles are angel kisses, rating is for language as usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:35:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23815495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableDoll/pseuds/IneffableDoll
Summary: Crowley has collected a handful of freckles over the years. He has no idea where they’re coming from.ORFive times Aziraphale kisses Crowley, and one time, Crowley kisses back. (Okay, it’s more than once, but still.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Confessions of Love [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1714558
Comments: 18
Kudos: 222
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	kiss me once

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Taylor Swift’s “Paper Rings.”  
> I just like the freckle fics, aight? Leave me alone.  
> Never done the 5+1 format and I ended up botching it at the end kinda? Whatever. Enjoy!

I.

Crawly was awake.

Of course, he was. Right? Why wouldn’t he be? He didn’t sleep. Humans slept. Not demons. So, him being awake was neither noteworthy nor interesting.

Now, the bed – that was a little more interesting.

He sat up slowly, taking in his surroundings. He appeared to be in an enclosed, four-walled space – _house_ , his brain supplied – and was sitting on a mat connected by four corners and suspended a foot in the air. His robes were tossed about him as though he’d been moving around a lot, but he didn’t remember doing that. Or getting here. Or why.

He closed his eyes and fought for the last thing he remembered. That was when he noticed the killer headache.

“Ah, fuck,” he murmured. “Hangover.” Because that was one thing he was, in fact, aware of. He quickly miracled it away and, with it gone, the previous night hazily returned to him.

He’d been drinking, obviously, and then – right! That angel from the wall. Aziraphale, wasn’t it? The angel had been drinking, too (guess liquor wasn’t as un-angelic as he’d assumed), and they somehow ended up drinking together…the details were fuzzy. Did _he_ ask him? Or did he ask _him_?

Mmm, pronouns were confusing. Maybe he should go female for a bit.

He stood up, changing his appearance with a thought, and focused her brain on understanding how the Heaven she got here.

So, she and the angel had been drinking together, talking about humans and waxing philosophical. One of Crawly’s favorite things, if she was honest, but there weren’t any human philosophers just yet, so she was grateful for someone who had lived long enough to have thoughts on morality worth listening to. Pluto and Confucius couldn’t show up fast enough.

So, they’d been talking about that…and then…ah.

The angel had invited her back to his place to continue drinking.

She looked around. Was this his living space, then? But there was no sign of the angel, his belongings, nor the residual holiness that seeped into the cracks of an angel’s residence. It seemed like any regular Mesopotamian building, and Crawly was completely alone.

Unfortunately, her memories petered out from there, her last image being that they had been walking through the streets, arms slung over one another’s shoulders for balance. She might have been singing a drinking song, though she liked changing the words and felt that staying on-key was rather restrictive. Still, hopefully music would be a thing that humans kept working with in the future.

She looked around again, rubbing her eyes. Somehow, she’d fallen asleep – which she’d never done before – and ended up in a bed. Maybe, because you were supposed to sleep in a bed, she’d gotten transported there, somehow? She couldn’t recall.

She exited, found a river, and splashed her face to cast off the residue of weariness that blanketed her. Was this how it always felt, to sleep? It wasn’t…unpleasant. She should try again sometime. It’d probably be even nicer if she didn’t wake up hungover.

When the water stilled, Crawly noticed a bit of dirt on her forehead. She rubbed at it with some water, but it stubbornly stayed put. Weird. Hopefully the humans would come up with some better cleaning methods someday.

She realized with a start that she had a temptation she was supposed to have done last night. That damn angel had distracted her! Unbelievable.

She marched off in a rage to find a glass of something strong – just one – and to start all over again in acquiring her target. She promised herself it’d be the last time she ever let that angel draw her from her work.

(Nevermind that the angel was fun and interesting, and work was not.)

II.

They were completely exhausted, physically and emotionally.

The Ark had been bobbing along for thirty days now, and Crawly had barely managed to keep their wards alive in the bowels of the ship, deep in an unused room. It took miracle after miracle, all of which they had to come up with clever excuses for to appease Below. Beelzebub didn’t need to know why Crawly had really gone to such efforts to save forty-odd children.

Still, it’d been thirty days, and Crawly had never held such extraordinary respect for mothers in their life (and fathers, on the odd occasion that they pitched in, in those days). Kids needed to eat so much damn food all the time, and they needed entertainment, and the really young ones needed assistance dealing with their defecation – and it was just. A lot.

Crawly found themself sneaking up that night, the oldest of the kids put in charge of all the younger ones. Crawly hadn’t slept at all this past month, which should’ve been fine, but they’d very quickly made a habit of weekly naps and it was taking a toll on them to go without.

So, they found a little spot to curl up as a snake and sleep. There were animals everywhere; no one would notice an extra reptile. The hay, though musky, was soft, and, for the first time since the Flood, they relaxed and let themselves drift away.

They were awoken an indeterminate amount of time later by being picked up, which was rather alarming for a snake demon to experience. They’d never even been touched while in serpent form, let alone _cradled against someone’s chest._

Crawly blinked awake to the face of Aziraphale, inches from their own.

They jerked violently, but the blessed angel just held tighter. “Shh,” he said softly, leaning in until his lips brushed their scaly snout, so that Crawly _felt_ more than _heard_ his words. “It’s not safe here. Noah’s sons are doing the rounds and they keep meticulous track of the animals in here. If they notice you, it’d cause…problems.”

Still tensed, Crawly allowed himself to be carried until they were down a few levels, in the storage rooms and away from the animals. The instant it was safe, they slithered out of the angel’s arms and took on their human form.

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale said when he saw them. “You look exhausted. Are you alright?”

Crawly jerked at the observation – not to mention the genuinely concerned tone. Aziraphale must be the embodiment of angelic, to be kind even to a demon. They didn’t think angels were even supposed to do that.

“’M fine,” they replied. “Just…yeah. Tired of living on a boat, for one. Not a water snake.”

Aziraphale smiled at the little joke, though it was a pained one. The echo of their last conversation was difficult to ignore. “Ah, well,” Aziraphale murmured, “I have duties up top, so I’ll…leave you to it.”

“Right.”

“Yes.”

“Ah…see ya around?”

Aziraphale glanced at them once more before turning to go. “Perhaps.”

Crawly shrugged. It was about the reply they’d expected. Once the angel was out of sight, they quickly made their way back below to where the kids were kept.

They stopped quite suddenly where they stood. There were six barrels in the room that hadn’t been there before and every kid was blessedly asleep. Not a single whining baby or complaining infant. It was _quiet._

Crawly felt relieved at that but eyed the barrels suspiciously. How did they get there? Did someone know about the kids? Was it an ambush, or something dangerous?

After a moment’s hesitation, they stepped forward and oh-so-carefully lifted each lid.

Food.

Each one was filled to the top with edible preservatives. Enough to last for months more, if needed. Crawly put a hand against their chest and took a deep breath, allowing their trickle of anxiety to fade. They still didn’t know how or why the barrels were here, but Crawly was far from one to refuse some useful resources.

“Mister?” came a small voice from their feet. Crawly looked down to see one of the mid-range kids – roughly seven or so – looking up at them with wide eyes. Crawly crouched down beside her.

“I told you, I’m not a mister right now,” they said patiently. “Call me that-snake-adult like everyone else. What do you need, kid?”

“’M sleepy, that-snake-adult,” she replied obediently.

Crawly raised their eyebrows. “Then go to sleep.”

“What’re the dots on your face?” she asked apropos of nothing, poking Crawly on the forehead and the nose.

“They’re called freckles.” They paused. “I only have one, though.”

The girl shook her head and poked their nose again. “Nope. One here and” – the spot on the forehead – “one here.”

After putting the girl back to bed, Crowley touched their face, trying to feel this apparent new freckle. The texture of skin was the same, so they wondered if the girl just saw it incorrectly in the low light of the room.

They shrugged, deciding it didn’t matter much. What’s another freckle?

Not like it means anything.

III.

She had not yet coined the phrase “Extraordinary amounts of alcohol,” but it was an apt one, nonetheless, in this scenario. If she had thought to try, she would not have been able to count the bottles.

The little rented room was scattered with broken glass and a certain demon grasped the neck of her current inebriating assistant to tip it backward, failing to notice the wine that sloshed past her lips and drenched her neck and pillow, still crusty from the last spill.

“Wooo…” she murmured, pumping a weak fist in the air once she swallowed the liquor pooling around her mouth.

It’d been a week, like this.

Bloody fucking Spanish Inquisition.

No one ever questioned. No one ever doubted that she came up with this shit. She should’ve expected no better from Below – hardly masters of character study – but she still couldn’t shake this feeling in her stomach that she was to blame, anyway.

She caused Original Sin, so all the shit humans came up with was her fault, if indirectly.

Torturing “witches” (aka women with a modicum of voice) and heretics (aka people Queen Isabella I of Spain disagreed with), under the veil of _religious cleansing_ , while really undercutting the laws in order to weed out minorities and destroy the diversity in the country – she couldn’t have come up with that if she’d tried.

Her fault. Fucking _fantastic._

She was done. Done with all of it. She vaguely recalled that Armageddon was a thing that was supposed to happen one day, according to some fuck-all plan, so maybe she’d just sleep until then.

She closed her eyes.

Black.

Black.

Grayish, lighter.

She opened her eyes.

The room was flooded in sunlight, partially filtered by curtains that had previously been drawn tightly closed. The rancid stench of stale, miracled alcohol was gone, replaced by something like freshly cut grass and parchment. Crowley blinked. Her head felt clear and light like it hadn’t in…ages.

As she sat up, she noticed two things: one, that her room was cleaned and completely devoid of the bottles she’d been throwing against the walls as she drank. Two, that Aziraphale was sitting in the chair at her desk, apparently reading some small tome.

That second thing was rather more fascinating.

“’Ziraphale?” she said, rubbing drowsiness from her eyes. “What’re you doin’ here?”

“Ah!” Aziraphale turned around in his chair, looking positively delighted. “You’re awake! Lovely!”

“Yeah. Uh.”

“I heard you were in Spain and was wor- needed to discuss something regarding the Arrangement,” the angel explained as he stood and crossed the room to the end of Crowley’s bed. “Found you in rather a state, I must say.”

Crowley winced. “Got a commendation.”

“A commendation?”

“For the Inquisition.”

Aziraphale’s face melted from confused to concerned to sympathetic, making a slight choking sound. “Oh, _Crowley_. You didn’t, though, did you?”

“Nope.” The demon slung her legs over the side of the bed, noticing suddenly that she wasn’t wearing anything but the sheet she’d tangled herself in. She dimly recalled stripping at one point in her drunken tirade and quickly snapped some clothing back on as she stood. “Not directly, anyway.”

“Directly? Whatever do you mean?”

Crowley inwardly groaned. “Like I need to explain, angel. I caused Free Will, didn’t I? So, it’s all my fault in some way. Anyway, care for lunch? My treat, since I’m awake now.”

“Dear,” Aziraphale breathed, stepping closer. “You know as well as anyone that you can’t blame humans for what they do with Free Will. I distinctly recall you once told me that ‘that was the entire damn point,’ some years back.”

Crowley deflated with a resigned sigh, allowing some of the frustration to bleed out of her shoulders. Aziraphale was right, of course. She _had_ said that, and it was true. She normally had a better handle on this – the whole _guilt_ thing, far too angelic of her – but sometimes…well, the Fallen aren’t known for being faithful, not even to themselves.

“Oh, how interesting,” Aziraphale said as they walked down the steps of the inn some minutes later, stopping to look at Crowley’s face.

“What? Something in my teeth?”

“You have freckles. I hadn’t noticed.”

“Hmm? Oh, right. I’ve got two. No clue where they came from.”

Aziraphale blinked. “There’re three. Your forehead, your nose, and your right cheek.”

“Three?” Crowley lifted an eyebrow, hand flying to her face. “Oh. Uh. Yeah, of course. Knew that.”

Later, when she was alone, she scrubbed at her spots until the skin was raw and red, on the precipice of bleeding if she rubbed any longer. She snapped to miracle them away when cleaning didn’t work and studied herself in the mirror with mounting confusion.

The three mysterious spots remained.

IV.

Crowley was a smart demon, usually, but it still took until 1941 to figure out what the freckles meant.

When they arrived back at their flat, they tossed themself on their sofa with a low groan and winced at the pain still searing in their feet. They needed to do something about that, but for now, there was something else to think about.

After dropping Aziraphale off at the bookshop and steadfastly refusing the offer to come in – though agreeing to a lunch not-date later in the week – they had spotted their reflection in the rearview mirror and noticed, yet again, another freckle.

“Where are these damn things coming from?” Crowley asked no one, pressing a finger against their left cheek. That was the fourth one, now.

And, in the way most epiphanies go, everything slotted into place at once when they recalled that Aziraphale had sheepishly kissed them on the cheek, as an old-fashioned form of farewell, before exiting the Bentley – as though he’d done it a thousand times.

And the freckle was exactly where the angel kissed them.

Which brings us back to a sofa in Mayfair. Feet propped on the table, sunglasses cast aside, and they’d lost their hat at some point.

“So. Okay, so then,” they reasoned aloud, feeling that an internal monologue would be inadequate, “a freckle appeared where the angel kissed me. That’s weird. But that also means that his kisses cause freckles. And I have four freckles. On my _damn face_. If he caused this new one, it’s somewhat safe to assume that he caused all of them.”

Crowley let their head fall back against the cushions with a growl. “Fucking angel has been _kissing me all this time_. What the fuck.”

They had a lot of questions. They always had questions; that was their thing. First and foremost was _why_ and for _how long?_

They wracked their memory for when their first spot had appeared. “That morning in Mesopotamia when I got drunk and woke up in that bed,” they mumbled when it struck them. Having not considered it since then, they realized suddenly that Aziraphale must’ve taken them there after Crowley/Crawly fell asleep as they were walking.

Then, the ark. That was when the second one appeared – along with the barrels he knew now to be from Aziraphale. Which means he knew about the kids, too, because _of course_ he did. Maybe it could’ve been coincidence that the freckles all appeared right after seeing Aziraphale, but with this new knowledge gracing their left cheek, they knew it was not.

“At the very least, that kiss didn’t seem to have been intentional,” they surmised, recalling their serpentine form slung over the angel’s arms and being whispered at between the eyes.

Regardless, it’d been since the first millennium that Aziraphale had been kissing them up – was that a phrase? – and, judging by his comment after the Inquisition mess, he didn’t know he was causing this.

For a brief moment, Crowley closed their eyes and let their mind drift. Let themself revel in the memory of Aziraphale’s dry but soft lips on their cheek, so fleeting, yet how their skin tingled at the memory. Kissing the forehead of someone who’s asleep could easily be seen as matronly, like a nurse caring for their ward.

But this was the first kiss that they _remembered._

And it’d been very nice.

They ran their fingers over their face.

_They wanted to kiss him back._

V.

Brother Francis and Nanny Ashtoreth watched as Young Warlock stampeded through the gardens, a strange mix of gently curious and utterly tyrannical in his exploration.

“The ark was easier than this,” Crowley commented under her breath, devoid of her nanny accent. “At least those kids didn’t require _emotional intimacy_ in their upbringing.”

Aziraphale laughed softly at that. “Are you saying this demon can’t handle one, little seven-year-old Antichrist?” he teased, being in an especially good mood that day. Sunny days always perked the angel up because they perked everyone else up and he could tell. And it was very sunny, which made Crowley irritable in all black.

“Of course, I can handle him,” she replied testily. “If I can deal with an _angel,_ I can deal with an Antichrist.”

Aziraphale raised a bushy eyebrow at him. Satan, how she hated those mutton chops. “Dealing with me, are you, dear?”

Crowley realized with a start that this sounded a Heaven of a lot like _flirting._

She cleared her throat and quickly changed the subject. “So. Uh. How’s the bookshop keeping in your absence?”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Aziraphale replied, folding his hands in front of him as he forgot his Brother Francis posture. “I pop in to check on it whenever I can. Make sure no one’s gone inside somehow and that all the books are safe.”

“Are you dusting when you go, or just waiting for it to get a few inches thick first?”

He had the gall to look offended. “Dust, on my books? It wouldn’t dare!” he exclaimed with the affected air of a 17th century aristocrat told he had to wear a cravat with a single wrinkle.

Crowley didn’t notice the besotted expression on her face until Warlock came up and tugged on her dress, pulling her back down to Earth and a comfortable scowl. “Yes, little monster?” she said, regaining her accented lilt as she took in the Destroyer of Worlds clutching her black lacy hem.

“I wanna go to France,” he said with a pout. “Mama’s in France.”

“I know, sweetie,” Crowley cooed, kneeling down to pat Warlock on the head and thinking about how much she hated the Dowlings. “How about we go look at our maps again, yes? You still haven’t decided where you want to blow up after Kentucky.”

Warlock nodded excitedly. “Okay!”

“Don’t go blowing anywhere up, Master Warlock. We talked about this,” Brother Francis scolded sternly before softening and looking up to Crowley. “Have a good afternoon, Lady Ashtoreth,” Brother Francis said politely as she stood and made to walk away. Much to her surprise, he took her hand and brushed a hairy kiss to her knuckles before smiling and walking away.

Crowley watched her hand with extraordinary shock and interest as, sure enough – a small, light brown dot appeared between the knuckles of her third and pointer finger.

Warlock pulled on her dress again imploringly. “Nanny? The map?”

“Yes, yes, I’m coming, tyrant.”

As they made their way through the Dowling gardens, Crowley grew more confident with each high-heeled step that she was going to stop the world from ending at any cost.

V+I.

They clinked glasses.

“What to, this time?” Aziraphale said, beaming as he took a sip.

“Mmm. Have we done Plutarch?” Crowley replied, tipping his glass back, as well.

The angel made a face. “Plutarch? Why Plutarch? Surely we should do Shakespeare before Plutarch.”

Crowley shrugged. “I’m drunk. Wha’d’you want from me?”

It was true. They were three bottles deep in the back room of the bookshop, having the time of their lives. The body-swap had been a rousing success and, between detailing the events of the past week that the other had missed and going through the hoops of _many, many apologies_ , they’d found themselves in comfortable company, toasting as many things as they could think of.

“Y’ know,” Crowley found his inebriated lips saying without permission, “you’ve kisssssed me rather a lot. ‘Ssss not fair, is it?”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows at him incredulously. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” said the liar.

“I looked it up.” Crowley sat forward, draining some of the alcohol from his system so the words wouldn’t slur. “Freckles are called ‘angel’s kisses’ in some places, which explains a Heaven of a lot, if you ask me.”

Aziraphale sobered up as well, turning scarlet as he understood what Crowley was saying with a clear mind. “Why, I…well…what are you saying exactly?”

Crowley smirked and, one by one, pointed out each freckle, listing aloud when he’d obtained them like going down a checklist. “Forehead, Mesopotamia. Nose, the Ark. Right cheek, Spain. Left, the Blitz. Hand, Dowling Estate.”

Aziraphale’s hand flew to his mouth in shock. “Why, I had no idea, my dear! I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize.”

Crowley shrugged. “No need to apologize, angel.”

“Whyever not?” Aziraphale asked confusedly. “I know how much you value the appearance of your corporation. Not that they look bad! But if I’d known I wouldn’t have mussed you up so.”

Crowley stood slowly, one eyebrow arched above his sunglasses as he crossed the room and crouched in front of Aziraphale, who straightened his posture in the armchair when they came to be eye-level.

“Angel,” he said an octave too low as a hand came to rest on Aziraphale’s cheek, “may I?”

Aziraphale paled in understanding. After a long moment, he gave a small nod.

Crowley leaned in.

And placed a small kiss on the angel’s forehead, mirroring the angel’s first kiss to Crowley.

Aziraphale made a small sound of surprise, which Crowley decided to take as encouragement. One by one, he trailed Aziraphale’s face, pit-stopping at the hand, until he had five kisses in all the same places. No freckles appeared, of course, but he’d always remember where he’d kissed the angel, anyway.

He leaned away sheepishly. “Sorry,” he murmured, suddenly embarrassed. This was more touching than they’d ever done, and it was rather a lot to process. Judging by the angel’s expression, he felt the same way.

Crowley made to stand but was stopped by a hand on his arm. “Is that it?” Aziraphale asked.

“What?”

“Is that all?” he reiterated.

Crowley squinted at Aziraphale, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Well, aren’t you…” Aziraphale huffed as he rolled his eyes, grabbed Crowley’s jaw, and pulled him forward to kiss his lips.

Oh, okay then.

It was chaste and short, but it felt as though the world stopped turning for it, anyway. The kiss tasted of millennia of near-misses and promises, and somehow, nothing could be sweeter.

When they broke apart, Crowley let out a breathy laugh and tried to regain his center of gravity. “Well, that explains a lot,” he murmured impishly, a boyish grin cracking his face.

“I most certainly hope it does,” Aziraphale chided, managing to look both exasperated and endeared at the same time.

“You know,” Crowley said softly, leaning in until their noses touched and making his voice deep and sultry, “now we’re uneven again. You’ve kissed me six times, and I’ve only kissed you five times.”

Aziraphale flushed. “Care to do something about that?”

He did, in fact.


End file.
